


Sacrament

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Seventh in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, strong language and a snarky psychic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Sacrament

Title: Sacrament  
Author: Hellskitten  
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com   
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing:S/D  
Rating: NC-17   
Warnings:Wincest, strong language and a snarky psychic.   
Spoilers:Some from the first eleven eps, but nothing huge.  
Disclaimer:The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB.  
Note: This is a continuation of my series and picks up right after “Down to Brass Tacks”.   
Soundtrack: “The Road” by Jackson Browne  
  
***  
  
John Winchester shaded his eyes as he stepped out into the bright northern California afternoon. A blast of synthetically cooled air clung to his back briefly before the hydraulic doors of the Sacramento Public Library sealed closed behind him. He squinted up the street toward the parking lot where he’d left his latest rental car and wondered if he had enough cash on him to pay the attendant. He shifted the small stack of photocopies tucked under his arm and reached for his wallet in his back pocket. Just as he opened the billfold to count his funds, someone plowed right into him on the sunny stairs.  
  
“Oh, god--excuse me, sir.” A handsome young man in his early twenties carrying a backpack the size of a Buick regarded John nervously. His long floppy blond hair flitted around his freckled face in the warm west coast breeze. “I wasn’t paying attention. Did I hurt you?”  
  
John smiled at the kid because he couldn’t help it. He was a near perfect physical mix of his own two sons. “Not at all. I wasn’t paying attention either. No harm done.”   
  
The young man smiled back, nodding emphatically. “Okay. Cool. Uh, well--sorry again. See ya.” He hitched his backpack higher up on his lean shoulder and proceeded toward the library’s doors.   
  
“See ya,” John said but the kid was already inside. With a melancholy sigh, John turned his attention back to the contents of his wallet. God, he missed his sons.  
  
He went down the vast stairs at the front of the library slowly, counting the cash in his billfold. Thirty-eight bucks. If parking cost more than that, he’d have to crash right through the gate. Wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
As he stood on the corner waiting for the walk signal, his cell phone rang. He grabbed the little device out of his pocket and squinted at the readout, but the caller was listed as ‘unknown’. That never bothered John Winchester much. Most of the people who had access to his cell number were the sort that preferred to remain unknown. He flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.  
  
“Hello?” he said and the light changed so he stepped off the curb.  
  
“John?!” a woman’s voice said. She was more than a little bit panicked.  
  
“This is John Winchester. Who’s this?”  
  
Suddenly the woman shrieked in his ear. “GET BACK ON THAT GOD-DAMNED CURB!”  
  
He blinked but didn’t hesitate because he recognized the caller’s voice at the instant it went so shrill. John turned around as quickly as he could and all but leapt back up onto the curb. Just as his feet hit the sidewalk, a tiny black Porsche scorched by on the street in front of the library. The driver never even touched the brakes.   
  
John gawped after the little car with his heart pounding like gangbusters in his chest. “Jesus,” he muttered.  
  
“You still there?!”  
  
“I’m here, Missouri.” He swallowed and touched his hand to his heart, a little concerned by its elevated pace. He could hear its fast hammering in his ears. “Thank you.”  
  
“Good lord!” Missouri Mosley bellowed on the other end of the phone. “I thought I was gonna be too late.”  
  
“Just in time,” he said, once again staring in disbelief in the direction the Porsche had gone. “Was that . . . an accident?”  
  
“Are you insane?” she shrilled. “They’re after you, John! They know what you and your boys are doing.”  
  
“The boys?” he said, frowning deeply. “Are they in danger?”  
  
“Of course they are!” Missouri yelled. “Did you think you could just traipse around for twenty odd years interfering with evil’s natural order and _not piss somethin’ off_?!!”  
  
“Yeah, well . . . they can all kiss my ass. I didn’t start this.” He looked from left to right up the street. “Can I cross now?”  
  
Missouri’s breathing was still labored, but he could tell by her tone that the crisis had passed. “Yes, go ahead.”  
  
He made his way across to the other sidewalk quickly, then headed toward the parking lot. “Can I ask how you knew that I was about to be run down by a speeding Porsche?”   
  
She’d caught her breath by then and he heard her sigh in her characteristically put out manner. “It was a Porsche, huh? Black?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Missouri chuckled. “My knowing about it was random, actually. I was looking in a kitchen drawer for a spare key to my wood shed and I ran across those photos you sent me at the holidays. The recent ones of your fine, strappin’ lads.”  
  
John knew the photos she meant. He could see them so clearly in his mind, it was almost like looking right at them.   
  
The photo of Dean was a year old and showed him leaning on that hulking black Chevy he loved so much. He’d just put the finishing touches on a new paint job and he was leaning on the hood in battered jeans and an old Megadeth t-shirt, beaming for John’s camera. His radiant, white-toothed smile was the spitting image of his mother’s. The sun had been dancing in his hair in that moment and John remembered teasing him about looking like James Dean. His oldest had been flattered by that comparison, even though he didn’t say so out loud. John could tell by that boyish blush that Dean had never grown out of.  
  
The photo of Sam was one John himself had not taken. Dean gave it to him when he returned from one of his many visits to Stanford. They didn’t know who had taken the photo, but it was of Sammy sitting in a sun lit library flanked by the stacks and relaxing next to a wall of windows. He was reclined in a ragged looking armchair with his long legs crossed on the floor in front of him. An enormous book lay open on his lap and he wore gray cords, tennis shoes and a thick beige cable knit sweater with sleeves that almost covered his hands. His hair was its usual soft chestnut mop and he was smiling in a way John hadn’t seen since Sam was a child. Every aspect of his body language conveyed happiness and ease. It was a beautiful picture.  
  
John remembered Dean had hesitated giving it to him because he thought it might make his father sad. He’d been right. That photograph of his youngest son broke John Winchester’s heart, but he’d stared at its every detail for almost an hour.   
  
“He misses you, too,” Missouri said, breaking his reverie. “That’s the first thing that came through when I picked up that photo today. Your boys feel lost without you.”  
  
“They have each other,” John said. He made his way across the parking lot to the red Toyota Camry he’d been driving all week, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. “It was you who told me they were fine as long as they were together.”   
  
“I did say that,” she said. “I believe they are. But that doesn’t make them miss their daddy any less.”  
  
He unlocked the Camry and sat down behind the wheel, carefully placing the photocopies he’d been carrying on the passenger seat. “You could tell I was in immediate danger from those pictures of my sons?” he asked her.  
  
“It came in a muddle, but my guides were adamant. I didn’t know exactly WHAT we were dealing with until I had your voice on the line.”  
  
John laughed softly, checking his heart rate again. “You were very nearly a witness to my demise.”  
  
Missouri took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “It is my solemn prayer _not_ to be, John Winchester,” she quietly told him. “So, you look after your reckless self. Your boys might be grown, but they are in no way ready to bury their father. Take care. You’ve got lots of enemies now and lots left to do.”  
  
He glanced around at the other cars in the parking lot, wondering if any of those enemies were near him then.  
  
In her usual prescient way, Missiouri said, “always. They’ve been watching you and your children since they took Mary. Now that you aggravating do-gooders are making a real dent in their party plans . . .” She sighed again. “Just be careful, John. Stay alive. Do the job you’ve been given.”  
  
He nodded gravely, then forced himself to smile before he spoke again. “I’ll do my best. Thanks for saving my ass again, my friend.”  
  
“Anytime,” she said. “Keep in touch.” And then Missouri hung up.  
  
John let out a deep breath and rested back in the driver’s seat. His whole body felt weak and heavy, like he hadn’t slept in days. Truth was, he’d been resting pretty easily since he saw the boys in Idaho. Just seeing them so strong and healthy settled his mind tremendously. And seeing Sammy had been incredible. He was still cantankerous and full of piss and vinegar, but he’d grown so much in every possible way. John’s youngest boy had gone off and turned into a man. Dean had always been John’s dependable ally, but he also seemed different on their last meeting. His inner strength had quadrupled simply because he was with Sam again.   
  
Looking at the quiet phone in his hand, John thought back to one of his most impactful conversations with his dear friend Missouri Mosley. It had been one of the earliest times in their mysterious association that she had inadvertently rescued him from himself.  
  
***  
  
_Lawrence, Kansas. Autumn, 2000._  
  
  
The cloying aroma of Darjeeling tea hovered in the still, sunny air as Missouri settled into a rocking chair opposite him. John Winchester marveled at the density of the silence in the room, wondering just how many spirits occupied the space around them. He could sense them, but only vaguely. Missouri knew them all by name. They were her guides, her teachers and her eyes to the other worlds. John had come to respect them greatly, even though he would never have the privilege of seeing them with his own eyes.  
  
His own eyes, however, were what had brought him to her that afternoon.  
  
He picked up a small silver spoon perched on the china saucer before him and stirred his fresh tea. His dark eyes tracked the sliver of steam that drifted out of his cup, watching it linger above the coffee table before it evaporated. His hostess sat watching him, silent with her hands folded in her ample lap. John offered her a weary smile.  
  
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said, his voice seeming too loud in the thick quiet around them.  
  
“Just tell me what’s on your mind, John Winchester.”  
  
“Can’t you tell?” he teased her, lifting his cup to his mouth and inhaling the sweet scent of the tea.   
  
Missouri Mosley smiled indulgently and her dark eyes twinkled. “As usual, listening to your thoughts is like listening to a high school marching band rehearse. Clang, clang, bash, boom, clatter. Dreadful noise.”  
  
He chuckled, sipped his tea, then set the delicate cup down in its saucer. Vaguely he wondered how old the china might be. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s a lot goin’ on in there today.”  
  
“Two things are coming to the surface,” she said, shifting in her seat so she could reach for her own china cup. “Mary is always forward in your mind--the first thing. When you come to me, I see her face before I see yours.”  
  
John sighed and looked down at his hands. His skin was dry and rough and he pulled at his fingers thoughtfully, trying to will forward the subject he wished to discuss with Missouri. He imagined his tumultuous thoughts as a box of disheveled file folders and he selected one to move to the front. There was a word written on this folder in his mind and he closed his eyes, reading it slowly, letter by letter, knowing she would be able to see it.  
  
_Incest_  
  
Missouri exhaled a deep breath in the quiet room. “Mm,” she mused. “That again.”  
  
He shook his head, knowing she was about to scold him once more for his natural parental concerns. “Missouri,” he began. “If they were your children, you’d feel exactly as I do.”  
  
“John,” she returned, her tone brisk and forthright. “If they were my children, they’d have neat hair cuts, clean fingernails, pristine manners and their ornery little butts would be in church every Sunday. But they’re not my children, they’re yours. And they’re yours for a reason.” She stared at him with her eyebrows raised like a harried fourth grade math teacher. “After all this time, don’t you know that there is absolutely nothing you can do about the course of their relationship? That was never in your hands--not to correct or dissuade or otherwise. Never. It’s in the hands of their destiny, John.”   
  
He covered his face with his own hands, sighing into the darkness there. His mind had suddenly gone clear of his usual cacophonous thoughts and he could see only one thing--one image. With this single idea in his head like a well-lit painting in a museum, he beseeched her with his gaze.   
  
“Do you see that?” he said.  
  
She stared deep in his eyes, searching, tracking, viewing. “Yes,” she said and nodded.  
  
“How am I supposed to just . . . _let that be_?”  
  
“Because you have no choice. That thing you’re showing me now--that’s a force of nature. Your boys will communicate in that very way for the rest of their lives. It’s a sacred ritual to them now. Something that’s only theirs. The fact that you whinge and moan about it makes it glow that much brighter--drives it down that much deeper between them.”  
  
“God,” he groaned miserably.  
  
“They don’t do it to spite you, silly man,” she went on. “They adore you. Your boys can’t help it.” She closed her eyes and sat still for a moment, mulling, concentrating. “Your youngest is drawn to Dean in two very distinct ways. He sees his brother as both protector and muse. Savior and inspiration. If that sweet young thing tried his level best, he would never be able to resist the power of his urge to touch Dean--to connect with him physically. He feeds from it. His energy derives directly from his brother’s affections.”  
  
“Affections?” John said, his eyebrows arching. “Is that what it looks like to you? That image in my mind . . . looks like _affection_?”  
  
Patient but annoyed, Missouri stood up, walked over to the couch and sat down beside John, taking his hand in both of hers. For a moment, they just looked at each other--his expression scared and imploring, her’s empathetic and gentle.   
  
“Show me again,” she said. “Now that I’ve got your hand and there won’t be any interference. Show me what you saw and let me look at it. I’ll tell you everything I see happening between them--and I don’t mean the obvious things. That’s all you’re seeing, John. You’re missing the ceremony of it all entirely--this much I already know.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Go on, then. Show me.”  
  
John lowered his head and steadied himself with a big, deep breath. Concentrating, he closed his eyes and called up the distressing images from the night before when he’d returned home unexpectedly early.  
  
  
***  
  
John had moved the boys several times since Mary died. For various stretches the three of them had taken residence with friends, but when they were on their own, he tended to stick near Lawrence. Not IN it, just near it. That made his investigations easier while sparing him the brutal reminders of things he saw every day with his wife.  
  
When Sam had reached high school age, he’d begged his father to stay stationary long enough for him to attend one school consistently. John couldn’t guess why that mattered, as long as he went the whole four years someplace. Dean had attended six different high schools and was no worse for the wear. But Sammy had been adamant, and he swore that he absolutely must attend only one school for the entire four years.   
  
So, John rented a small bottom floor apartment and he and Dean did whatever worked to make enough money to stay put. Dean even found enough time to have a steady girlfriend or two. If it weren’t for the dark truths about the Winchester men, they would have appeared on the surface as an ordinary single-parent family.  
  
Sam had just turned seventeen and was a few weeks into his senior year. He’d been playing soccer and getting frighteningly good grades and he was even on the debate team. That hadn’t surprised John much. His youngest had excelled at arguing since he’d learned to speak. Sammy had also recently surpassed Dean’s considerable height by about four inches. He was much slighter, but taller and Dean was still adjusting to the altered dynamic that created.   
  
The night before, John had gone to see Caleb to inspect a new shipment of 9 mm handguns. He’d told the boys he’d be back around 8:00, but it turned out the meeting hadn’t taken that long. As he’d rounded the corner from the car port just after 7:20, he caught movement through the blinds covering their kitchen window. The kitchen’s overhead light was turned off, but a lamp from the adjacent living room cast just enough illumination to create a deep shadow.  
  
John had frozen in his tracks, squinting at the curious shape projected on the blinds. At first glance, he thought their flat had been invaded by some sort of multi-limbed hell beast, but then his mind worked the puzzle before his eyes. He wasn’t seeing a beast with six limbs, but his two very human boys tangled around each other in the middle of the kitchen. From what he could gather, it looked like Sammy was sitting on the table and Dean’s hips were wedged between his brother’s long legs.  
  
John crept through the shrubs that lined the outside of their dumpy building and stood to the far left of the kitchen window. From there, he could see around the thin beige blinds and into the dimly lit room beyond. Holding his breath, he frowned deeply at what he observed.  
  
Dean had found a little restaurant on the corner of their street that made delicious, inexpensive wraps and the three of them had been living on that menu for weeks. John could see by the debris on the kitchen table that the boys had procured dinner from that place again. Sammy was indeed sitting on the table, with his legs open around Dean’s hips. His bare feet rested against the cabinets by the frig and his blue flannel button down shirt was open over his bare torso.   
  
Dean stood between Sam’s legs. His head was bent forward so he could extend his tongue far enough to lick up a dollop of mayonnaise that had landed on Sam’s chest, just above the right nipple. Having collected the drop, Dean straightened and brought the stray mayonnaise to Sammy’s open mouth. Their tongues connected, stroked each other and then the boys’ mouths were melded tightly together.   
  
John swallowed, tasting metal and bile, but for whatever reason he was unable to turn away. Through eyes squinted in disgust he kept watching, dismayed that he was so close he could hear them clearly through the window.  
  
Sammy moaned into their kiss, sucking greedily at Dean’s full lips. John cringed when Dean moved just enough to the left to expose what his hand was busy doing in that space between their meshed bodies. Both of their ragged jeans were open and Dean had hold of their erections in his right hand, deftly rubbing them against each other as they kissed. John looked away, his gaze momentarily tracking down the long line of Sammy’s left leg. His youngest son’s toes gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and John heard him moan again.  
  
For an instant, he thought he would vomit but then he managed to steady himself. Why he wanted to look again was a mystery, but look--he did. Sammy had broken their kiss and he was panting in shallow breaths, his forehead pressed against Dean’s. John’s oldest son groaned softly then his left hand came up into Sammy’s hair, fingers carding through the chestnut locks, caressing his neck and holding on tightly. Their hips pumped against each other and Dean’s hand worked furiously between them. As they got closer to coming, the table underneath Sam began to thump with their rhythm, banging loudly on the cheap linoleum. John could feel the vibration of it through the building’s outer wall.  
  
For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried desperately to un-see what was likely to be forever burned in his mind. The thumping increased, gathering speed and he heard Dean cry out first, moaning deep in his throat over and over again. Sammy’s breathier voice followed immediately and in shorter bursts. John pressed his cheek to the prickly stucco of the outer wall and forced his eyes open.  
  
Dean’s hips worked in slow pumps up and down and he moaned fiercely as he ground their erections together. Sammy’s legs had opened even wider and he’d tilted lewdly forward on the table to give Dean more access to his private parts. Those green eyes that usually sparkled with ferocious intelligence were heavy lidded and glassy with lust. To John, who saw his beloved Mary in Sammy’s eyes every time they looked at each other, that image had been the most unnerving. He wasn’t the independent, bright boy John was so very proud of--he’d become a ravenous young male animal writhing under the spell of blatant carnality. It made John shiver down to his bones.   
  
They were kissing again, gnawing each other’s lips as they literally rode through their climax. John could see his youngest trembling all over as the spasms shattered through him. Panting into Dean’s open mouth, Sammy then started to speak . . . but John couldn’t hear what he said. He actually _could_ hear the sounds, he just couldn’t understand the words.  
  
The communication reminded him of a conversation he’d overheard once on a Greyhound in Southern California. He and two fellow marines had been returning from a training exercise at Camp Pendleton and they were seated in front of a young couple who appeared to be newlyweds. The girl had been lovely and petite but too dark for John’s type. Willowy blondes were his downfall. That hadn’t stopped him from being captivated by the quiet murmurings between the girl and her beau. John guessed the language was some dialect of Spanish, but it sounded so much more melodic than the ones he’d heard before. He’d listened to them whisper to each other for half an hour, lulled by the seductive cadence of the words.   
  
But his sons weren’t speaking Spanish or any other known language. They were talking to each other in a vernacular all their own--one only they knew how to interpret. He watched and listened as they traded tones and breathy mutterings, brushing noses, softly tasting each other’s lips. He tried not to scream when he saw Dean slip his slick fingers into Sammy’s mouth. His youngest sucked those fingers with his eyes closed reverently, as though he were taking communion from a priest.   
  
He’d stayed outside the window for another ten minutes, watching as his boys kissed relentlessly through the afterglow of their dark pleasures and then proceeded to clean up the kitchen. Even during those menial chores, they’d stopped several times to kiss each other again. Apparently, they thought a little spray cleaner and a pile of freshly washed dishes would make it so their father never knew what they got up to on top of that wobbly secondhand table. John wished he didn’t know. Wished it with all he had.  
  
When he’d finally come into the small apartment about fifteen minutes later, Sammy was in his room immersed in his homework and Dean was reclined on the couch with a book in his lap, half watching a football game on television. His oldest had greeted him with a good-natured, tilted smile and told him there was a chicken wrap and some potato salad for him in the frig. John had thanked him, but said he wasn’t all that hungry. For some reason.  
  
***  
  
Missouri pursed her lips, frowning in thought. John sat slumped on her couch, his head resting on the cushions behind, watching her pensive face closely. He felt exhausted as though she had somehow drained him with the simple act of reading his thoughts. Perhaps he’d sapped his own energy trying to push them away.   
  
“Do you want to know what I saw?” she asked him.  
  
“That’s why I’m here.”  
  
Missouri huffed as she stood up slowly. “Oh, like hell, John. You’re here because you’re hoping I can give you a potion that will make your sons stop coveting each other’s privates.” She crossed back to her chair and sat down, reaching out for her tea cup. For a few minutes, she sat quietly stirring her silver spoon in her tea.  
  
“I don’t want them to stop showing affection for each other,” John clarified. “Genuine affection, not . . . whatever it is they’re doing.” He sighed. “I just want them to stop this revolting sexual contact.”  
  
She shook her head. “That’s the part you’re missin’. Didn’t you tell me that your boys have been physically close since Sammy was born?”  
  
John nodded. “More so after Mary died. I would find Dean in Sammy’s crib every morning wrapped around his baby brother for dear life.”  
  
“Right,” she said. “Before Sammy could talk, Dean taught him physical communication. The first thing your baby son learned was that his big brother’s touch meant protection, safety.” She sipped her tea, watching him over the edge of her delicate cup. “That’s exactly what they’re still doing, John--protecting each other and keeping each other safe.”  
  
He grimaced and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Missouri, you can’t tell me that what I saw them do is anything more than deviant pornography. They both have excellent vocabularies. Why can’t they just talk to communicate?”  
  
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Are you saying you don’t ever hug your boys?”  
  
“What?” he said, confused and more than a little insulted. “Of course I do. I hug ‘em all the time.”  
  
“And why do you do that?”  
  
“Because . . . I love them. That’s not remotely the same thing!”  
  
She took in a breath and went on. “You hug them because you love them and that’s one of the ways you express that to them. Right?”  
  
“It’s _not_ the same thing.”  
  
“Of course not,” she said. She set her cup down on the table, resting her elbows on her knees. “What you didn’t see in the images you shared with me was the ceremony of what they’re doing, John. You saw an exchange of nothing more than base, animal desires. What I saw was quite different. Yes, your boys are engaging in pleasures that could be considered . . . well . . . morally questionable. However, it’s not really fair to judge them by the same standards as ordinary people. Your boys are not ordinary. They’re Winchesters.”  
  
John winced from those words, wishing with all his might that he could change that reality somehow.   
  
“They need special comforts,” Missouri continued. “They’re doing heroic deeds no one else can do. What I saw wasn’t just them communicating, but them _communing_. I saw Dean’s fingers caressing Sammy’s hair. I saw them kiss each other over and over again--like they’d die if they stopped. I saw Sammy take his brother’s fingers into his mouth like a sacramental wafer.” She lowered her voice slightly. “I also saw Sam surrender himself in a way that no one could unless they felt completely and utterly safe with the person they were with. That’s trust, John. Life and death trust.”  
  
Missouri settled back in her chair before she continued.  
  
“All those things are a ritual to them now. At some point, they translated the feelings of safety and protection from something platonic and familial into something deeply sexual. They are healthy human males, after all. We’re creatures driven by pleasure. But what you need to understand is that it doesn’t matter how they find each other. They simply _need_ the other’s touch to function.”  
  
For a long time, he just sat there turning her words over in his head. Like he always did when he was deep in thought, John absently spun his wedding ring on his finger. Missouri let him think, busying herself with pouring them each a fresh cup of tea. Finally, he looked over at her.  
  
“You’re saying they’re never going to stop this.”  
  
She settled back in her chair again with her cup resting in her lap. “I’m saying they’ll comfort each other in this way for as long as they need to. There’s no telling how long that’ll be, John. But, yes. It might be for as much of forever as they have.” She looked down into her tea and her voice tempered to a near whisper. “With the lot your family has drawn, that may not be very long. Try to make peace with it, John. You have no control over it, anyway.”  
  
John Winchester sighed, his heart like concrete in his chest. He looked out at the street through the sheer curtains over the window in Missouri’s sitting room and caught a glimpse of a boy on a bicycle weaving happily down the center of the quiet road. His light brown hair fluttered in the wind and after establishing control over his ride, he lifted his arms in a wide ‘V’ over his head. John smiled as the boy disappeared around the corner, even though the image of that carefree child nearly brought him to tears.  
  
***  
  
_Fremont, Nebraska. Present Day._   
  
  
Dean’s cell phone chirped in his jacket pocket and he fished it out while he kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t look to see who was calling. “Hello?”  
  
“Hey, kiddo.”  
  
His heart raced for an instant at the sound of his father’s voice and then it settled into an excited gallop. “Dad. Where are you?”  
  
“I’m close. Are you in Omaha yet?”  
  
“About two hours out.” Dean glanced over at Sam who was napping soundly in the passenger seat. “Are you gonna meet us?”  
  
“Soon, Dean.”  
  
He frowned but knew better than to push the issue. “So, what’s up?”  
  
“I was just thinking about something . . . from a few years back. Something Missouri told me.” He paused and Dean heard him swallow. “I couldn’t say it when I was with you guys, but . . . I just wanted to . . . tell you . . . ” John Winchester sighed heavily and it sounded frustrated, but Dean couldn’t be sure. “I just wanted to hear your voice. And to tell you to take care of each other.”  
  
Dean’s frown smoothed out into the brow of a young boy. His eyes welled up surprisingly quickly making him blink back tears. “We will, Dad. Always do.”  
  
“I know,” his father said in a voice thick with emotion. “God, it was so good to see my boys. I swear Sammy got taller.”   
  
“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “I think so, too. The bastard. Listen . . . don’t stay away too much longer, okay?”  
  
“I’ll do my best, son. But even though I don’t want to tell you what’s going on with me yet, I needed you to know . . .” He sniffed and Dean heard him struggle to speak.   
  
Big hot tears tumbled over Dean’s cheeks, dropping in tiny splats on the leather of his jacket. “We know, Dad. We love you, too.”  
  
Sam shifted next to him, turning slightly in his sleep, but he did not wake up.   
  
John sniffed again and cleared his throat. “Okay, enough of that. Call me when you’re settled in Omaha.”  
  
“Will do.”   
  
“Talk to you then. Bye.”   
  
The line went silent in his ear and Dean folded the phone closed, dropping it back into his pocket. He bit his lip, troubled by the unusual level of emotion in his father’s voice. As an ex-Marine and stalwart hunter of evil things, John Winchester just wasn’t that guy. Maybe he had been at some point, but Dean surely couldn’t remember.  
  
Sam shifted again and then sat up suddenly, blinking into the late afternoon sunshine. He shook his head to clear it, then rubbed at his eyes.  
  
“You okay?” Dean asked.  
  
“Yeah. I was just . . . really out. Which is weird cuz . . .” he glanced over at his brother behind the wheel. “I never sleep like that unless you’re touching me.”  
  
“Well, I was right here. And you did touch me a few times when you were fidgeting around.”  
  
Sam nodded, but still looked perplexed.   
  
Dean glanced at him sidelong. “Nightmares?”  
  
The youngest Winchester squinted, thinking. “There was something kinda . . . cold . . . but I don’t remember. It was like . . . something that _almost_ happened.” Shaking his head again, he looked at Dean’s face closely. “Are you crying?” Sam reached over and brushed away an errant tear on Dean’s chin.   
  
“Uh, yeah, I guess. Sorta. Dad called. He was in kind of a mood. Really emotional. It just . . . got to me.”  
  
“Is he okay?”  
  
“Seems like.”  
  
“He does get like that sometimes,” Sam said softly. “Or he used to.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat and scowled at the road ahead. “He wants us to call when we get settled in Omaha.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam stretched as best he could in the cramped front seat and then sat back, looking out the window at the waning day. “I’m gonna need food soon.”  
  
“Me, too,” Dean said. He sniffed and wiped at one last tear that had cooled on his cheek, but he still felt strangely unsettled inside. He felt like he either wanted to curl up in a ball and cry for an hour or like he wanted to kill something in a really brutal way. Those roiling emotions annoyed him and made him feel out of control. He tried steadying himself with a few deep breaths, but it didn’t help. He could feel Sam looking at him, too, and that wasn’t helping, either.  
  
Suddenly, his brother shifted beside him and stretched out on the bench seat. Sam laid on his back with his knees bent against the passenger door and he rested his head in Dean’s lap. Without thinking, Dean slipped his right hand up underneath Sam’s shirt, looking for the warm, satiny skin he loved so much.   
  
“Awfully tough to keep a seatbelt on in that position, Sammy-boy.”  
  
Sam grinned. “Seatbelts are for wimps. Besides . . .” He turned his head so he could press a kiss into Dean’s belly. “I can’t blow you if I’m strapped down.”   
  
Dean laughed, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous, dude.”  
  
“I thought you were the dangerous one.” Sam turned a little more until he could get his fingers on Dean’s fly. Once this was accomplished, he wriggled the zipper down and worked his fingers inside Dean’s boxers.   
  
“Ooooh, man . . .” Dean sighed, lifting his hips as much as he could without taking his foot off the gas. Sam got hold of his swelling cock and in the next instant, Dean’s entire body was zinging with pleasure. He knew he would have to pull over or he’d end up crashing the car into a tree as soon as he came.  
  
As he slowed the Impala and moved them off onto the gravelly shoulder, Sam’s tongue found the big, sensitive vein running up the back of Dean’s cock. It played there gently until the car came to a complete stop, then Sam rolled onto his belly and really went to work. Dean moaned, his fingers knotting in his brother’s hair, reveling in the softness and heat. He loved playing with Sammy’s hair. Always had. When they were really young, Dean remembered being aware of that as one of his first sensual pleasures. His first erection was a result of nuzzling his little brother’s chestnut curls.  
  
He let his head drop back over the top of the driver’s seat and he closed his eyes. On the darkness behind his eyelids, he pictured the yummy sensations Sammy was giving him--he could see his brother’s tongue sliding along and stroking his cock inside that hot mouth. He could see the blood darkening Sammy’s pink lips to crimson. He tried not to pump his hips, but found he was losing that battle. Everything felt so good, so right, so incredibly, deliciously necessary.  
  
Dean came with a series of shuddering groans, his fingers buried deep in the curls at Sammy’s nape. The top of his left thigh crammed into the steering wheel as his hips lurched, but he barely noticed. He heard his little brother moaning in that telltale way and he glanced over just in time to see Sam stroke himself through his own orgasm, spilling creamy seed in a thick puddle on the Impala’s front bench. Dean didn’t care. He knew from plenty of experience that if they got to it quickly, semen wouldn’t stain the interior.   
  
Sam gently sucked on Dean’s cock until it went flaccid in his mouth, drawing out the reverberating tingles to the very last moment. Then he sat up in the passenger seat and opened the glove box, fishing around for some clean napkins. Dean zipped up as his brother tended to the little mess he’d made on the front seat. He watched Sammy’s handsome, flushed face as he frowned in concentration, carefully making sure he got all the liquid off the vinyl. Sam wadded up the napkin and gave Dean a grin as he tossed it into the back seat.  
  
“Good?” his little brother asked, completely unnecessarily.   
  
“Please,” Dean chuckled. “Did I come?”  
  
“You always come.”  
  
“That’s because it’s always good--sometimes it’s even epic, Sammy.” He gave his brother a wink. “Shall we find food?”  
  
“Definitely.” Sammy hitched up his zipper then settled back into the passenger seat, glancing outside at the flat Nebraskan terrain. “What the hell do people do for fun around here?”  
  
Dean looked over his shoulder at the road behind them, making sure the coast was clear to pull out. The long, straight highway stretched all the way to the horizon and there wasn’t another car in sight.  
  
“Who knows?” he said, pulling the Impala out onto the empty interstate again. “I’m sure they figure something out.”  
  
Just as he got back up to cruising speed, headlights appeared in his rearview--gaining impossibly fast. Dean watched the lights approach, holding his breath and in a matter of seconds, the vehicle was right on his tail. Sam looked back, glaring through the rear window at the other car. It was a late model Porsche painted in glinting black metallic.   
  
“Where the fuck . . .?” Sam started to say and then the black Porsche rounded the Impala on the driver’s side.   
  
The windows were deeply tinted so the boys couldn’t see the driver, but whoever it was pulled right up next to them and matched their speed. For almost half a mile, the Porsche paced them and then suddenly, its driver gunned the engine and sped off down the road.  
  
“Okay, that was freakin’ weird.” Frowning angrily, Dean turned to his brother. Sam was staring after the Porsche and his smooth face had gone pale.  
  
“What?”  
  
It took Sam a moment to answer. He swallowed, still staring ahead down the road where the Porsche had long since disappeared. “That car . . . was in my dream.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding me? The dream you just had fifteen minutes ago?”  
  
Sam nodded, turning his wide-eyed gaze to his brother. “It just . . . stopped and then went right by me . . . Exactly like it just did with us.”  
  
“Could you see the driver in the dream?”  
  
He shook his head. “Did you see him?”  
  
“No.” Dean pursed his lips unhappily. “Super,” he said, stepping hard on the accelerator. “Now we’ve got a stalker.”  
  
The Impala barreled ahead down the road as the bright day began to slide toward night.  
  
(more soon)


End file.
